


A Trip to the Zoo

by 221bBakerStreet221b



Series: Little Brothers Mine [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, M/M, Mention of spanking, Non-Sexual Age Play, Thumb-sucking, Wetting, pull-ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 13:21:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10594854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221bBakerStreet221b/pseuds/221bBakerStreet221b
Summary: When Mycroft learns that John would like to try being little, he works out the best ways to balance John's needs with Sherlock's.  But will a trip to the zoo with Uncle Greg harm John's confidence or allow him to accept Mycroft's care?





	1. A Trip to the Zoo Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who have been following "Little Brothers Mine," I've edited the story into a series because I knew the chapter count might get too high and unwieldy if I continued on in the way I started. Hopefully linking each new story to the series will still make sense, and the parts should move chronologically, so it should all be fairly straightforward.
> 
> For those of you who haven't been reading the earlier chapters, this story takes part after the "Little Sherlock" chapters which have also been linked as part of this series, but unless you'd like the extra context it's not completely necessary for you to read that first.
> 
> Little John is my recent favorite, so I'm excited to share these chapters! Thanks as always for the kudos/comments!

Mycroft heard the front door open and a bounding up the stairs that could only be Sherlock. He had let Lestrade take the boys to the zoo for the morning, and as much as he hadn’t liked to admit it, he had been nervous. 

John had only been dropping into headspace for about four months now, and he rarely felt comfortable enough to go out into public while little. It had begun late one night after the two men had put Sherlock down for the night. They sat across from each other at the dining table. John had hemmed and hawed over his feelings, all of which Mycroft had already ascertained over the course of the weeks leading up to the conversation, and it was Mycroft who eventually let John off the hook and spoke up.

“You’d like to try being little,” he stated, and John looked at him with wide eyes.

“N-no,” John stammered. “I-I just thought…”

Mycroft smiled; He would never admit to thinking so, but John would make an adorable little. The idea had been in his mind since the day Sherlock had shouted that he was a bigger boy than John. He had done his best to assure the man that he was there for him, although Mycroft had been too cowardly to simply come out and ask the man how he was feeling. He was forming a bond with the doctor, that was for sure, but Mycroft hesitated when it came to expressing his feelings of mutual friendship for the man. 

The moment John relented, however, the moment Mycroft could see the man ready to show his desires, he felt a profound closeness to the man, a falling away of the barriers that had been built up between them.

“It’s okay, bud,” he said, finding himself quickly slipping into endearing nicknames in an attempt to help John free himself of some of his clearly mounted up anxiety. “You’re welcome to give it a try. Sherlock could certainly benefit from socializing with someone his own age for a change.”

John blinked across the table at Mycroft. He was clearly hesitant.

“You never asked for this,” John said.

Mycroft sighed. Of course John’s hesitancy came from a concern of imposing himself upon or inconveniencing others. The truth of the matter was, Mycroft enjoyed caring for Sherlock in his little state, and he had no doubt he would enjoy caring for John just as much. Returning to the little semblance of domesticity he found when caring for Sherlock allowed him an escape from the stress of work and alleviated the loneliness he would never admit to Sherlock he did often feel. Adding John into the mix would simply add a new dynamic; Mycroft enjoyed new challenges, and if he were honest with himself, he wouldn’t mind the additional affection from a new little who looked up to him for his needs. 

“John,” Mycroft said, “It may not be apparent, but I gain as much from ageplay as does Sherlock. And it seems to me I’d very much enjoy caring for you.”  
John blushed, but smiled as he ducked his head.

“Are you sure?” he asked. Mycroft could already sense a sweetness to the man, an innocence he usually guarded against.

“Promise you’ll be a good boy?” Mycroft asked, teasing the man as he figured anyone in comparison to Sherlock’s naughtiness would rank as ‘good.’

But John did not catch the teasing nature of Mycroft’s question, and his eyes were sincere as he nodded emphatically. 

“Good boy,” Mycroft smiled, no longer operating with sarcasm and feeling guilty for attempting to make light of John's feelings. He reached across the table to pat John’s hand. He crossed into the living room and grabbed two highball glasses as well as the bottle of bourbon. He needed to discuss logistics with John before they began, and the presence of alcohol would bring John back into his fully adult state while also allowing John to escape a bit of the embarrassment Mycroft could sense he was feeling. 

“Now, don’t sink down just yet,” Mycroft said, pouring bourbon into each glass and passing one across the table to John. “Let’s talk logistics.”

John cleared his throat and sat up straighter. It was clear he was pulling himself back.

“Okay,” he said. “You mean safewords?”

Mycroft hummed his assent. “We’ll need to settle on one eventually. Your own, separate from Sherlock’s. For now, what do you think about the household rules?”

“Sherlock’s rules?”

Mycroft nodded. “Sherlock and I have had years to cultivate his ideal environment, years to settle on parameters based on his needs. But Sherlock’s rules may not work best for you.”

John finished his bourbon and Mycroft poured him another.

“Let’s start with this: Are there any of Sherlock’s rules that you dislike, that wouldn’t work for you?”

John glanced up at Mycroft and nodded.

“Punishments,” John said.

“Perfectly understandable,” Mycroft said to encourage the man. “Elaborate, please.”

John ran a hand over the back of his neck.

“I...I think...time outs are okay, and having privileges taken away. Those punishments make sense to me for breaking the rules. But punishment for Sherlock is one thing he uses to keep him in headspace. He misbehaves or acts up the worst when he starts to feel anxious or starts to feel himself slipping. And then you know he’s asking you or me to spank him or humiliate him in another way, because he enjoys the humiliation and it keeps him little. I...I don’t want to be humiliated, and I definitely don’t want to be…” John stared into his bourbon glass, “...spanked.”

“Understood,” Mycroft said. He knew John was uncomfortable when he was forced to spank Sherlock. He often allowed Mycroft to take care of it when the need arose; it was no wonder he did not want physical punishments for himself. “No physical punishments or deliberate humiliations.”

“I think it would pull me out of headspace,” John said. “It doesn’t do anything for me.”

“God knows where my little brother got the proclivity,” Mycroft mused. “Anything else?”

John nodded. “But it’s...embarrassing,” he said.

“John, I need to know how best to support you.”

John sighed. “Sherlock isn’t allowed to suck his thumb,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. Even so, Mycroft caught the words.

“And you would like to be allowed to?”

John nodded, cheeks blazing with embarrassment.

“That’s fine,” Mycroft said.

John glanced up in shock.

“It is?” he asked.

Mycroft chuckled. “John, the reason Sherlock has so many rules in place is because he is desperate for attention but doesn’t feel comfortable asking for it. He knows very well he is not allowed to suck his thumb and he knows that I know he knows. So Sherlock choosing to suck his thumb--even though the action has never brought him much pleasure throughout his life--is a way for him to gain my attention, a way for him to once again feel a small reminder that he’s under my care, and these things keep him little. God knows I would prefer he seek positive attention instead of negative, but you’ve seen how uncomfortable he gets when I try to express affection towards him. Only the most experienced therapist in the world would be able to convince him he deserves positive attention and can ask for it when he feels unloved or unsure of himself. Until then, it’s clear he needs outlets through which to gain attention in his own way.”

“So you don’t...mind?”

“If you suck your thumb? Not at all. I’d prefer pacifiers to a thumb as I believe them to be more sanitary, but if your thumb brings you the most comfort, that’s fine with me.”

“I...this is a bit too much,” John admitted, but Mycroft had seen a hint of interest in the man’s eye when he mentioned pacifiers. John yawned and rubbed at his eyes--he was slipping, despite the alcohol. “Can we finish talking tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, finding himself just wanting to comfort the man. He reached across the table and patted John’s hand, signalling with the endearment that John could slip completely if he needed to. He pulled a pen and pad of paper from his suit coat’s breast pocket. “Just as soon as you settle on a safeword. Write it down for me, love.” 

Four months had passed, and John had been settling well into his role as Sherlock’s little brother. They had been making progress with John feeling comfortable enough to stay in headspace for longer periods of time and Mycroft, catching on to John's need to process verbally, had been through numerous conversations regarding the rules and treatments which worked best for John when he was in little space. Mycroft, for his part, was intrigued with the prospect of having to navigate a new relationship with its own regulations, and he had been enjoying the new challenge of caring for two littles instead of just one. He took pride in the progress John had been making. John still disliked being little in public, so the trip to the zoo had been one planned for just Lestrade and Sherlock. Mycroft expected to spend the morning alone with John, who often took to an age of roughly three to six years old, always a bit younger than Sherlock’s chosen age each day. But when Mycroft was woken up to Sherlock’s insistent excitement far too early in the morning, he found a shy John tugging on his dressing gown and asking if he could go along to the zoo as well.

“Want to see the ducks,” John had whispered, and Mycroft smiled at John’s simple request.

“Are you sure you feel brave enough to go with Uncle Greg and Sherlock today?” Mycroft asked once he had sent Sherlock to use the toilet and was alone with John. He began picking out clothes for John to wear that day. “We could always go to the park to see the ducks.”

“Want to see the zoo ducks,” John said, tugging down on his pajama shirt as Mycroft guided him to step out of his pajama pants.

“There will probably be a lot of people there,” Mycroft warned, kneeling down and holding out a fresh pair of cartoon underwear for the man. He wanted to ensure John knew what he was signing on for.

“You come?” John asked after he had stepped into the underwear and then a pair of trousers, peeking up at Mycroft. There was no doubt that little John was rather attached to Mycroft, that he truly only felt safe in Mycroft’s care. Poor Lestrade, who the boys had long known was more than an acquaintance to Mycroft despite the appearance the men gave off in public, had been through quite a few difficult nights babysitting when Mycroft was called away for work, nights filled with a teary and frightened John only made better by the excitement Sherlock showed when Lestrade came to watch them; Sherlock was always cheekily on his best behavior when Lestrade cared for them, behavior which far surpassed even Sherlock’s least difficult days with Mycroft or an adult John. 

Mycroft sighed. “I wish I could, buddy, but I have an important phone call this morning that I need to be here for. You can go to the zoo with Sherlock and Uncle Greg, or you can stay here with me and later this afternoon we can go to the park.”

Sherlock would have screamed and argued over those choices, but John responded best to either/or choices and took a moment to decide. His thumb moved to run against his bottom lip before he placed it into his mouth, where John sucked hard on it. Mycroft had been working towards introducing John to pacifiers; Mycroft knew he rejected pacifiers right now not out of a lack of interest but out of a fear that, even in headspace, he was too old for them, that others--namely, Sherlock, who took a devilish pleasure in pointing out anything he deemed babyish about John’s behavior--would tease. John was really a very sensitive little, perhaps more sensitive even than Sherlock, which made Mycroft believe John as an adult was more than likely used to putting on a tough front that hid his insecurities. 

“Zoo,” John had said with a quiet determination. “I want to see the zoo ducks.”

“Okay, bud. I’m proud of you for being brave,” Mycroft said. John beamed at the praise. He was desperate for praise, and, unlike Sherlock, did not shrug off positive encouragement. As the oldest child of his family, John was used to giving encouragement, and he had rarely received it back.

As Mycroft helped John out of his pajama shirt and into a plain t-shirt, he found he did feel actual pride at John’s decision. Caring for John was an entirely different beast than caring for Sherlock. It had been a long four months of learning how to adjust his caretaking to meet both Sherlock and John’s needs, and Mycroft was pleased John felt comfortable enough in his headspace to venture into public. He was a bit concerned that John wanted to take such a large step at a time Mycroft would not be able to be with him, but John had been growing more comfortable with Lestrade each time the man visited while the boys were in headspace. Besides, John was rather reserved, even in headspace. It would be unlikely he would speak to anyone besides Lestrade and Sherlock (and more likely he would only speak directly to Sherlock), and unlikely anyone would realize the man was in a younger mindset. 

Mycroft had dressed and packed up the boys, fed them breakfast, made them wash their faces and use the loo before he sent them, slathered in sunscreen, off with Lestrade. Now that John and Sherlock’s flat was empty, he packed up and called for a car to take him to the office, where he settled down with his tea and newspaper and spent the morning absorbed in work and conference calls with rather incompetent people.


	2. A Trip to the Zoo Part 2

Mycroft returned to Baker street by 2:00 PM in order to wait for the return of his boys from the zoo, and by the time he could hear Sherlock bounding up the stairs, back from the zoo, he was ready for the boys to come home. Lestrade had texted pictures throughout the day, and while both boys looked happy enough, Mycroft was worried at John’s dwindling smile within each successive picture. He called Lestrade to express his concerns that John may have had enough, but Lestrade shrugged it off and told him both boys were having a blast of a time. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock called as he burst into the flat. He rushed to the kitchen table where Mycroft was sitting, and held up a plush alligator, making the alligator growl a hello to Mycroft. Mycroft assumed the alligator had been the closest thing the gift shop had had to a dinosaur.

“Hey there, Lock. Who’s your new friend?” Mycroft asked, pulling Sherlock onto his lap. “Did you have a good time with Uncle Greg and John at the zoo?”

Sherlock nodded and made his alligator walk up to Mycroft’s shoulder. “His name is Greg,” Sherlock giggled. “Uncle Greg named him.” He clacked his own teeth together as he made the alligator's mouth open and close in front of Mycroft’s face, then jumped out of Mycroft’s lap to bounce over to Lestrade, who was leading John by the shoulder as they entered the kitchen. 

John’s eyes were red-rimmed and the boy had been sucking his thumb even as they walked into the flat. Mycroft stood, seeing immediately that something was wrong.

“Are you okay, bud?” He asked, bending to John’s height. John looked down to the ground, his cheeks pink and his eyes filling with tears. He suckled hard on his thumb.

“We had a bit of trouble,” Lestrade said when Mycroft looked up at him.

Sherlock was galloping around the flat, but he was clearly still following the train of conversation.

“The baby wet his pants!” Sherlock called, loud and jeering. 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade and Mycroft both chided at the same time. John certainly was always the younger of the two, but he hated to be called the baby. Sherlock knew this, and used the term unapologetically and harshly.

John’s face crumpled as he took his thumb out of his mouth and began to cry. He looked pitifully broken as he stood in the kitchen and the tears streamed down his face. Mycroft was taken aback. He had never seen the man cry while in head space apart from a few scattered nights when John’s PTSD reared its head in the form of violent nightmares. The tears then had been unsurprising. The nightmares John described were intense for even adult John, so it was no wonder they impacted little John. But Mycroft was not used to John’s tears in the daylight, and certainly not around Sherlock or Lestrade. John had always seemed to hold himself back from full emotional release when not impacted by a nightmare, had always seemed to be too self conscious to let go in that way.

Mycroft lifted the man into his arms, an action Sherlock was always jealous of and which prompted another taunt of “baby, baby, baby,” from the older boy.

“Sherlock, you know better than to call your brother a baby,” Mycroft warned. “You’re in time out. Go stand in the corner.”

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft in shock and anger.

“But he is a baby!” Sherlock gaped. “Only babies pee in their pants!”

“And I seem to remember sending a certain someone to the zoo in pull-ups today because of all of his accidents this week.”

Now Sherlock was also crying, and Mycroft sighed. 

“That doesn’t count!” Sherlock screeched. “That was just in case, you said!”

Mycroft simply pointed to the corner and waited for his brother to stomp his way into time out. He knew it was unfair of him to bring up Sherlock’s wetting or pull-ups, but he needed the older boy put into his place and knew Sherlock well enough that he could see the boy needed a bit of attention at the moment. He would have time to get to the bottom of Sherlock’s teasing once he had dealt with John. For now, he knew a bit of attention--even if it was negative--would tide him over. 

“You’re mean! I’m the biggest!” Sherlock called, but he sniffled and sat on the stool facing the wall, mumbling that he was a big boy who didn’t have accidents. Lestrade caught Mycroft’s raised eyebrow and smirked at the boy’s blatant lie.

Greg sighed. “I’d asked ‘em both if they needed the loo just ten minutes before, and neither of ‘em asked for it.”

Mycroft was concerned. While Sherlock often wet himself--in bed, while playing, at the dinner table, for fun or for spite, even when he was not in headspace--John never had. Although he was clearly younger in head space than Sherlock, the younger brother every time, he had never had the type of toileting troubles that had always been a pattern and a problem for Sherlock. 

“I didn’t have any spare clothes for him, so I just bought some sweatpants at the zoo shop and changed him into one of Sherlock’s spare pull-ups for under them,” Lestrade explained.

“Thanks,” Mycroft said. “I’ve got it from here.”

Greg nodded. “Right,” he said. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft called across the room. “Say thank you to Uncle Greg.”

Sherlock rubbed his nose on his sleeve and turned towards his Uncle. He was clutching the new plush alligator in his arms and sucking his thumb, begging for Mycroft to chastise him because both he and John knew very well that there were no toys allowed during time out and that, by Sherlock’s own rule, he was not allowed to suck his thumb like John was. Mycroft shuddered to think when the boy’s hands had last been washed.

“Thanks for the ‘gator and for lunch and the cotton candy and the trip to the zoo, Uncle Greg,” Sherlock mumbled, and, not surprisingly, John lifted his face from Mycroft’s shoulder and mumbled a thank you as well. Mycroft smiled and told him he was a polite boy. The praise seemed to help to settle John a bit more.

“You’re both very welcome,” Lestrade said. He passed over the boys’ backpack which Mycroft had packed that morning with pull-ups for Sherlock and jumpers for both boys and snacks and a first-aid kit and one toy each for the ride to the zoo. Lestrade also placed a plush lion on the kitchen table which Mycroft assumed was John’s chosen toy from the gift shop.

After Lestrade left, the boys both settled a bit. Sherlock’s tears had stopped entirely, and he was content in the corner playing with Greg the alligator. John continued to cry quietly, tears pulsing down his embarrassed, flushed cheeks.

“It was a tough day, huh bud?” Mycroft asked when he had sat at a chair in the kitchen and pulled John away from his shoulder so he could look him in the face.  
John nodded, and when he looked as if he would start to bawl once more, Mycroft passed over the plush lion and John buried his face into it as he clutched it in his arms. Later, he would press John to find out what had happened. For now, he simply needed to comfort the boy and assure him that everything was going to be okay.

“Look at me, love,” Mycroft said quietly, and he waited until John peeked up towards him.

“It was just an accident, and accidents happen to everyone. I’m not mad and Uncle Greg isn’t mad.”

“I’m not a baby,” John whispered, and his eyes flicked over to where Sherlock was hunched in the corner with his back to them.

“Of course you’re not,” Mycroft said, knowing he would need to speak to Sherlock about teasing his brother. “You’re my big, kind boy. And you know what?”

John sniffed. “What?”

“I’m proud of you for going out with your Uncle Greg today. It must have been scary and I can see that you were very brave.”

The tensed muscles in John’s body began to relax a bit, and John’s countenance was a bit less downtrodden.

“Brave like Harry Potter?” John asked hopefully.

Mycroft smiled. He had begun reading the Harry Potter books to the boys before bedtime; neither had read them in their adult states, and the books enchanted them.

“Just like Harry Potter, buddy,” Mycroft assured, which finally earned him a smile from John. But it was a smile which quickly faded.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

John sniffled and another tear fell down his cheeks.

“Gryffindor undies got dirty,” he said, crying through his concerns.

Mycroft shushed him, rubbing his back. 

“Not a problem,” he said. “We’ll just throw them in the wash right now and they’ll be good as new by the time you go to bed tonight.”

“Uncle Greg didn’t throw them away?” John asked, eyes wide with hope.

Mycroft smiled and wiped John’s tears. “Of course not, bud. They’ll be good as new in no time.”

John nodded and then lay his head against Mycroft’s shoulder, his toy hugged beneath his arm. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft called, “Come here, lad.”

Sherlock was sulking, but he walked over to the kitchen table where Mycroft and John sat. He fidgeted, one foot on top of the other. 

“It was wrong of you to tease your brother today. As the big brother, it’s your job to protect those who are littler than you, especially your brother. You didn’t protect John today by teasing him, did you?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit and, after a moment, he shook his head.

“You made John feel upset and sad about something that happens to everyone from time to time. You wouldn’t like it if he teased you.” Mycroft realized Sherlock may in fact enjoy that very much, having a proclivity for humiliation, but at the moment Sherlock seemed adequately chagrined. “You owe your brother an apology, bud.”

The boy (and the man) hated apologies. Mycroft hoped this one would not become a drawn out ordeal. He was relieved when Sherlock did not put up a fight but came closer to where John lay with his head on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry I didn’t protect you, John-John,” Sherlock mumbled. “You’re not a baby.”

“It’s okay,” John said. “Sorry we had to leave the zoo because of me.”

Sherlock shrugged. “We saw everything good,” he said, and then his voice became quieter, conspiratorial. “I didn’t want to see the bird house, anyway. It’s smelly and scary.”

Mycroft cupped Sherlock’s cheek in praise, and, in a rare show of affection, the boy leaned into his touch. Sherlock was nothing if not an observer, and Mycroft believed the boy’s observations of Mycroft’s clear affection towards a John who enjoyed receiving praise and love had been doing him some good. Perhaps Sherlock was learning that it was okay to accept positive attention.

“That’s a good boy,” he said, but Sherlock shrugged him off and turned his attention back to his alligator, who he made walk along the table edge. The boy still had a ways to go.

Mycroft placed John next to Sherlock.

“Did Uncle Greg feed you boys lunch?” 

Sherlock nodded, but Mycroft turned to John. He did not trust Sherlock when it came to meals and food consumption; the boy was known to lie about having eaten.

“I had chicken nuggets and Sher’ock had a hamburger,” John said, rubbing his face against the back of his arm.

“Good,” Mycroft nodded. “Now, it’s bath time for all good big boys.”

Immediately Sherlock began to argue.

“It’s just after lunch!” Sherlock called out. “It’s not bedtime yet!” 

“You’ve both been running around with a bunch of zoo creatures all day. You need a bath now and then we’ll put on something comfortable and watch a movie. Bath now means no bath tonight before bed.”

“Okay,” John nodded, and Sherlock, pouting, sighed and agreed.


	3. A Trip to the Zoo Part 3

Following through with the established routine of their usual little days seemed to settle both boys back into themselves rather quickly. John was allowed to squirt the bubble bath into the tub while Sherlock chose the bath toys and tested the water so that it matched his idea of the perfect temperature, which luckily John never railed against. John seemed to relax a bit more when he was undressed and the shameful borrowed pull-up (still dry, thankfully--Mycroft didn’t think the boy would have been able to handle two accidents in one day) had been removed. 

Once John was settled into the tub, pushing bath toys down into the water to watch them float back up to the surface, Mycroft turned to help Sherlock undress. Generally, the boy liked to undress himself, but that afternoon he stubbornly refused to undress without Mycroft’s help, obviously feeling either left out of the attention John had received that day due to his accident or still upset over what he viewed to be the unfairness of his recent time-out. He stood fiddling with a plastic shark bath toy, making no attempt to undress himself. When Mycroft guided him by the hips closer to where he kneeled, Sherlock glanced down with a sigh. Mycroft unbuttoned Sherlock’s trousers and revealed a very wet pull-up. He said nothing, because Sherlock was very clearly waiting for his reaction and Mycroft did not want to throw the boy into a fit. Luckily, John was absorbed with the bath toys and did not seem attuned to what was happening next to him. John would never tease, but if Sherlock even thought John looked at him strangely after an accident, he would strop and complain. 

Mycroft tore the sides of Sherlock’s wet pull-up and balled it up to dispose of it. 

“Needed to stay little,” Sherlock mumbled quietly, attention on the plastic shark, making it eat his fingers. “But I’m not a baby.”

“Of course not,” Mycroft assured, helping Sherlock off with his shirt. “You’ve been a good boy today all things considered. I’m proud of you.”

Sherlock squirmed under the praise, but Mycroft could sense it settled his brother in a small way. It made sense that Sherlock would need a way to keep himself young while out in public where there were additional distractions which could more easily pull him out of headspace. He was just glad the pull-ups had not leaked, as they were very close to doing. Lestrade did not deserve to take care of two sets of wet pants.

It was a tight squeeze to fit both boys in the tub, and often Sherlock kicked out at John when he felt he was crowding his space, but history had proven it was impossible to keep Sherlock entertained and happy while Mycroft bathed John alone, so the only solution was to bathe them together. Baths when Sherlock and John were little were more about calming and comforting than they were about cleanliness, so it had never been a problem that they were not always exactly effective.

Once hair had been washed and the boys were done playing, Mycroft wrapped them in oversized towels and brought them to Sherlock’s bedroom, the room they shared when in headspace. The boys shared Sherlock’s bed, but each had their own twin-sized comforter covered in childish patterns: Sherlock had a dinosaur comforter and John had chosen butterflies, which Sherlock teased for being too girly until Mycroft threatened to take away his dinosaur quilt. Mycroft had recently ordered a new comforter for John, a Harry Potter pattern which he thought, now that they had begun to read the books, John might even prefer over his butterflies. 

“I don’t need any help!” Sherlock called as he bounded to the dresser and yanked out the bottom drawer, where they kept the boys’ little clothes. He tore through to find a pair of sweatpants and a dinosaur t-shirt.

John, towel clutched around his shoulders, stayed close to Mycroft.

“Help, please,” he said, and Mycroft wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders and guided him to sit on the bed. 

“What a polite boy,” Mycroft praised, and John smiled.

Sherlock was pulling on a pair of dinosaur underwear. Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

“I’m a big boy,” Sherlock said when he caught Mycroft’s look. “Don’t need pull-ups. Want dinos.”

Mycroft could have put up the fight to force his brother into wearing protection--after all, the boy had wet himself--but he knew any argument he might propose would become null unless Mycroft also forced John into pull-ups for also having had an accident. And he did not feel that would be the best for John’s confidence at the moment. John was looking up at him fragile and needy. If Mycroft asked John to wear pull-ups, even if he simply dressed him in one, John would acquiesce without a fight. But the boy would be affected by the choice, would think Mycroft did not trust him or that Mycroft truly did think, like Sherlock, that he was a baby. So he simply allowed Sherlock to dress himself in underwear and the rest of his chosen clothing, and he fished around the drawers for a fresh pair of Harry Potter underwear and some comfortable clothes for John.

Once the boys were dressed, Mycroft settled down with them and their sippy cups of juice and their blankets and their plushies on either side of him, and, for an hour and a half, they were quiet and sweet and the ordeals of the day had been forgotten while they watched The Lion King.


	4. A Trip to the Zoo--Part 4

It was an hour after the boys had gone down for the night, and Mycroft set out two highball glasses and the bottle of bourbon. He assumed he would be having another late night conversation with John, who Mycroft knew would need help processing the events of the day. 

Sure enough, a few moments later, John stumbled into the kitchen, dressed in child-like Harry Potter Gryffindor pajamas and with a baby blanket wrapped around his shoulders, but he was very much in his adult mind. It was clear he was relieved to find Mycroft waiting for him.

“I thought I might be seeing you tonight,” Mycroft said as John took a seat at the kitchen table across from him. “Are you doing okay?”

John shrugged and pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, blinking up at Mycroft. “And then I overthought everything from today and I pulled myself out of headspace before I knew what was happening.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Mycroft asked, “What you've been worrying about?” 

John sighed. “I haven't done that since I was a kid,” he said, a touch of anger in his voice which Mycroft knew John directed inward towards himself. “I'm embarrassed. What if people saw?”

Sure enough, John’s cheeks blazed pink. He put his face in his hands and shook his head. “I don't know how I let it happen,” he said.

“You were in headspace,” Mycroft reminded him, wishing the man would not beat himself up so consistently. “You made so much progress today. I wish you wouldn’t blame yourself for something that happened while you were young.” 

“I was in deep, Mycroft,” John breathed as he looked up at the older man. “I’ve never been in that deep. I knew I had to go but I kept telling myself it would go away, that I would miss something if I went. Then I thought Sherlock would be upset if we had to pause for Uncle--for Greg to bring me to the bathroom, and also for some reason I was nervous to tell Greg I had to go. He had just asked ten minutes before, and I’d lied and told him I didn't have to. I’m not even really sure why. So I rationalized holding it. I truly was under the impression that it would go away if I just ignored it. But then it got bad enough that I knew I had to tell someone. And by the time I got to Greg, it was too late. Oh, god, Lestrade must have been so mortified. I just stood in front of him and pissed myself.”

John’s cheeks were pink once more as he swallowed the bourbon Mycroft placed in front of him.

“I can assure you, Lestrade’s seen and dealt with far worse. You were in headspace,” Mycroft repeated. “Even if you hadn't been, you did nothing wrong. You’re okay, now.”

“All night I kept thinking I was such a bad kid. I could barely focus on the movie. I was terrified I would pee myself again. God, thank you for not saying anything when I went to use the bathroom every twenty minutes between the bath you gave us and bedtime.”

Mycroft had been able to see what had been going through John’s mind all afternoon. The nerves, the worry, the insecurities. He had come to learn that, unlike Sherlock, John always needed some solo processing time before he was ready to discuss. It was why Mycroft hadn't spoken up or suggested that the boy age up. He knew he just had to wait for John to come to him on his own terms, after he had processed himself. 

“John, listen to me,” Mycroft said, reaching across the table to pat John’s hand as a way to get his full attention. “I know you'll think my words childish, but it really was just an accident. It isn't the end of the world. And it definitely didn't make you a bad kid. It actually just made you a kid, which you were at the time.” 

Mycroft was careful to speak in the past tense; John was no longer in headspace. He wouldn't appreciate being spoken to as if he were. 

“Even if you hadn't been in headspace," Mycroft assured him, "there’s nothing to be upset about. It happens. If anyone saw you it's likely they assumed you were sick, as you would assume if you saw another man wet his pants in public.”

John nodded, but his eyes were vulnerable when he next glanced up at Mycroft, full of his signature insecurity.

“You tell Sherlock he isn't supposed to have accidents,” John whispered.

Mycroft sighed. Here were John’s worries on display. Mycroft wished he could make the man understand that nothing John could do would disappoint him. 

“What do we say about Sherlock’s rules?”

John spoke quietly. “They’re not my rules.”

Mycroft nodded. “That's right. And Sherlock knows that, too. Sherlock wants the humiliation. He enjoys it and he needs it. We’ve talked about this before in relation to his thumb sucking. I respond to Sherlock sucking his thumb differently than I do you, right?”

John nodded his head. John, when in headspace, was rarely without his thumb in his mouth. Sherlock continued to be chastised for the act, but even Sherlock understood why John was not. There were different rules for different children, even in the same household, Mycroft had explained to them. Sherlock wanted and needed to be put in his place far more often than John. 

Even so, there were times when John hesitated, when he pulled his own thumb out of his mouth when Mycroft warned Sherlock that he was too old for it. John had a tough time feeling as if he deserved his own set of circumstances; Mycroft could see he often felt he was inconveniencing everyone by not simply slipping directly into Sherlock’s. It was why John’s accident had torn him up so much. 

Had Sherlock come home having wet his pants in public, he would have been punished severely--time-out and a stern talking to, relegated to pull-ups for the rest of the day and possibly even spanked. John had received none of that. He had been comforted and changed into fresh Harry Potter underwear after his bath, had been given hugs and been allowed to pick the movie they watched. 

Mycroft had been able to see that it had all been a bit confusing for the boy, but he was not about to treat John any differently than how they had discussed. Mycroft needed to assure him that he would treat him exactly as John requested in their chats about boundaries and rules.

“Sherlock needs wetting and thumb sucking to be responded to as an infraction. You don't need that or want that. It's why we have separate rules for each of you. Do you understand?”

“I guess,” John mumbled into his glass. “So you're not mad?”

“Not a bit,” Mycroft said, refilling their glasses. “If anything I felt disappointed in myself for not ensuring that Greg take you both to the bathroom periodically throughout the day. I should have known you would be overwhelmed. It was your first extended trip out in public while in headspace without me.”

“Disappointed in yourself?” John looked up in a bit of shock, and Mycroft realized that John still found it surprising when Mycroft showed affection or care towards him. "It wasn't your fault,” John said, and then stared down at the table.

Mycroft waited until John glanced up at him.

“John,” he said. “We spend a good deal of time talking about your feelings toward my behavior as your caregiver. Perhaps it's time I told you a bit about how I feel towards you as a little.”

John looked worried, his face paling. It was clear he was prepared for the worst, clear he was steeling himself in case Mycroft told him he no longer wanted to care for the boy.

“Oh, bud,” Mycroft said, upset that the man would even think Mycroft might ask him to stop being little and unable to keep from slipping into caretaker mode. “It’s nothing like that. I wanted to assure you that I take great joy in caring for both you and Sherlock. I am not skilled at expressing emotion--a trait I share with my brother. But I am a man of many acquaintances and few friends. I hope I am not presumptuous to group you into the latter category.”

John seemed to breathe a bit easier. His gaze was steady upon Mycroft, almost eager for his words.  
“Of course not,” he said.

Mycroft continued after draining his glass. “I...I have grown rather attached to little John, as well, and I need you to know he could never inconvenience me, certainly not for something which he needs at his core to find happiness and confidence. I don't view you as tagging along while Sherlock ageplays. You're as much worthy of your own experience as Sherlock is. That's why I was disappointed in myself over what happened today. I slipped in my duties to keep you happiest and taken care of in your little space. I allowed something to happen that you did not desire or ask for. Do you understand?”

John seemed lost in thought, but he nodded. 

“Yes. Thank you," he said, finally smiling slightly.

“That’s also why we need to discuss what you're hiding from me right now.”

John blinked up and his cheeks pinked. “I’m--I’m not hiding anything,” he stuttered.

“John?” Mycroft prompted.

“It’s embarrassing,” he said, squirming a bit on the kitchen chair. He pulled the baby blanket tighter around his shoulders.

Mycroft waited in silence. John may have been unsure of Mycroft’s feelings towards him, but he knew to come to him with any big emotions or questions in order to keep ageplay safe and enjoyable for everyone involved. He simply waited until John was ready to speak. 

John eventually groaned a bit and then began talking. He knew he was not getting up from the table until Mycroft was satisfied that he'd told all.

“I...today, when I...had an accident. I…”  
John swallowed and did not speak for some time.

“You don't need to censor yourself, John,” Mycroft said. “I need to know if I am to properly care for you.”

John ducked his head and mumbled.

“I can't help if you don't tell me, John.”

“I...I liked it,” John said. 

Mycroft steeled his facial expression so that he did not betray any emotion that might discourage John from elaborating. 

“Tell me more,” he said, his voice even.

John shrugged, still unable to look up at Mycroft, cheeks blazing with embarrassment. “Not the fact that it happened in public where everyone could see or the fact that Greg had to help me clean up when I just wanted you,” John paused, blushing at his admission of affection while not in headspace. 

Mycroft could not help but feel a swell of affection for the boy wanting him to help; Mycroft wished he had been there to help, too. 

John continued: “But each time I decided to hold it, I fell deeper into headspace. And there was a bit of a, a thrill, I guess, to knowing I was holding it when I should be asking for the bathroom, to just wait to see if someone adult would notice. I felt so young and helpless. And when I felt myself going in my pants, there was shock and the fear but there was also relief and...oh god...warmth. I felt the furthest from my adult self I think I ever have.”

Mycroft nodded as John finished his sentence. It wasn't unlike Sherlock’s reasoning for any of his intentional wettings. John may have been less intrigued by the humiliation than was Sherlock, but the core desire to feel young and helpless and, although John had only alluded to it in passing, naughty, was the same. John picked at the edge of the table with his fingernail. 

“Okay,” Mycroft said.

John glanced up at Mycroft at last. 

“Okay?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Okay.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “You’re...you don’t think I’m strange or disgusting?”

Mycroft could see John begin to slip. This was getting to be a bit too much for the man who was clearly tired from the emotional toll of the day. But he needed to get information while John was willing.

“Not in the least. But, I need to know how you’d like to proceed. Is this something you would like to do again? Would you like to be put in pull-ups like Sherlock? Be toilet trained? Be reminded to use the toilet?”

John seemed to think for a moment. 

“I’m not sure that I know at the moment,” John admitted. “But no pull-ups, at least not right now. I think it might happen again, that...that I might like it to, but I’m not sure. I need some more time to process.”

“Take all the time you might need,” Mycroft said. “Thank you for telling me. I will follow your lead. For now, do you have a sense of how you’d like me to respond if it does happen again?”

“No punishments,” John said immediately. “Just, um, comfort. And maybe a warm bath. Reassurance, like you gave today. Telling me I’m still..." John blushed. "Still a big boy, that it was just an accident. Greg was good at that as well, but it was coming home to you and having you there to help make it better that helped the most. Just attention, and it’d be okay if you reminded me to use the toilet throughout the rest of the day.”

“And Sherlock?” Mycroft asked. He was impressed by John’s verbosity. The man was clearly getting less self-conscious about expressing his needs and feelings as a little. “He’ll tease. Might be jealous of the attention.”

John nodded. “It’s okay, actually. I like being Sherlock’s younger brother, and his teasing solidifies that role for us. It’s never malicious, although I do wish he would stop calling me ‘baby.’ I’m not a baby.” It was clear the term truly bothered John.

“I know you’re not. I’ll speak to him,” Mycroft said. “And everything you’ve said sounds more than doable. Thank you for explaining to me. I want you to be happy, John.”

“I know,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Feel a bit better?” 

John nodded.

“Can I ask you one more question before I tuck you back into bed because it’s far past your bedtime?”

John smirked, rolled his eyes at Mycroft's insistence on tucking him in. “Of course.”

“Do you think you’re ready to give a pacifier a try?”

John’s cheeks pinked again, and he let his head fall into his hands once more.

Mycroft stood from his chair and moved to the other side of the table. He nudged John to a standing position, took his seat, and settled the smaller man down onto his lap. 

John protested a bit, struggling between his adult self and child self, but when Mycroft ran a hand across John’s back, the man settled, and Mycroft could see that although he hadn’t yet, he was close to slipping down in age.

“I would never force something like that onto you,” Mycroft said. “But It seems to me that you’re interested in them, and that only the fear of what others would say discourages you from taking them.”

John buried his face into Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Sherlock will call me ‘baby’,” John nearly whined.

“Is that the only reason you haven’t accepted one, yet?”

John nodded into Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I’ll speak with him,” Mycroft said. “Your thumb is raw from sucking and I think you’d enjoy the pacifier. I know you’re not a baby, and you can believe me.”

“Okay,” he said hesitantly, sticking the aforementioned sore thumb into his mouth. 

Mycroft lifted the man and carried him to the bedroom he shared with Sherlock when the men were little. Sherlock was asleep, limbs askance and sheets and blankets twisted around. Mycroft settled John into bed next to Sherlock and tucked him in beneath his butterfly comforter.

“Night, Mycroft,” John yawned.

Mycroft kissed the boy on the forehead. Before he turned away, he removed a pacifier from John’s nightstand drawer and offered it to the boy. John whined but accepted it into his mouth and began sucking after a tentative moment. The whine dissolved into a sigh of contentment. He opened his eyes for just a moment to look up at Mycroft.

“Still a big boy,” he mumbled around the plastic nipple.

“Of course,” Mycroft said, reaching down to pat John’s cheek. “You’re still my big boy.”


	5. A Trip to the Zoo, Part 5

On his way out of the bedroom, Mycroft bent on the other side of the bed to straighten Sherlock’s tangled bed clothes.

“Myc?” Sherlock mumbled, awakened by the movement around him.

“Yeah, bud. I was just checking to make sure you were all tucked in.”

Sherlock rubbed at his eyes as Mycroft settled the sheets and pulled Sherlock’s plush animals from where they had shifted towards the edge of the bed or onto the floor. Sherlock took them in his arms.

“The baby couldn’t sleep,” Sherlock whispered. “He was crying so I rubbed his back and recited the periodic table for him for a while, but it didn’t stop him crying..”

Mycroft felt pained to hear that John had been crying but pleased that Sherlock had felt comfortable providing emotional comfort in his own way. John must have been more conflicted and upset by the day’s events than he had originally thought.

“It was a tough day for him,” Mycroft explained. “But he’s okay now.”

Sherlock nodded and sat up to hug Mycroft around the waist. Sherlock was generally only clingy when he was tired. Mycroft sat down on the edge of his brother’s bed.

"Need a change?" Mycroft asked when Sherlock pulled away.

Sherlock whined and shook his head.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned.

His brother sighed and kicked out from under the blankets. It was rare that he allowed Mycroft to change his pull-up, so Mycroft moved quickly, stripping his brother of his pajama pants and then retrieving a clean pull-up.

“Sherlock, bud. Listen to me for a minute, okay?” Mycroft asked quietly while he had Sherlock's attention. Mycroft glanced over towards John to make sure the man had fallen asleep. He was clearly out, and Mycroft spoke quietly so as not to disturb him.

Sherlock looked up from where he had been making his alligator climb over his stomach, kicking his legs until Mycroft had stripped him of the wet pull-up and wiped him down. 

“Listening,” he said once he was dressed in a dry pull-up and Mycroft was stringing his pajama pants back up his legs.

“John’s your little brother, but he’s not a baby. It hurts his feelings when you call him that name. I want you to stop calling him that, no matter what he does or how young he slips.”

“Even if he pees and poops his pants?” Sherlock yawned, clearly fighting sleep once more.

“No matter what,” Mycroft said, taken aback a bit by sherlock’s train of thought and praying it wasn't a sign of something Sherlock himself had been contemplating. Mycroft patted Sherlock's thigh to signal that he was finished, then helped the boy back under the sheets and his dinosaur comforter. 

Mycroft took a seat on the bed, resting his hand on Sherlock's leg beneath the blankets. “Everyone of all ages has accidents now and then," he said. "And everyone needs different things to make them feel comforted. That doesn’t make them a baby. Do you understand?”

Sherlock lay back against his pillow and nodded. There was a flash of adult cynicism on his face which Mycroft knew had to do with Sherlock’s own self-consciousness about his wettings, but luckily the man overcame it and settled back into his younger state of mind. “Won’t call John-John a baby, anymore,” he said. 

Sherlock put his thumb into his mouth.

“You don’t need that, bud.” Mycroft said as he guided it away. 

He settled the sheets and blanket up beneath Sherlock’s chin.

“That’s my good boy,” Mycroft said, and in a rare acceptance of praise, Sherlock grinned.

“I’ll call him ‘bunny,’ instead.” Sherlock said, eyes closing.

Mycroft’s voice was full of laughter.

“You want to call John ‘bunny’?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded and blinked his eyes open once more.

“I have to call him something. John’s his big name.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said, unsure why he hadn’t realized Sherlock’s calling John “baby” was actually another of his self-preservation skills, another way to keep himself young. He realized now that Sherlock never used John’s name when they were ageplaying, and it was Sherlock who had begun the nickname John-John. 

“Sherlock, you call John ‘baby’ because it’s too hard to call him his grown-up name and stay little?" 

Sherlock yawned, and Mycroft knew the boy would not have patience for the conversation much longer. 

“Uh-huh," Sherlock nodded, rubbing his eyes, "And ‘bunny’ sounds almost like ‘baby,’ and John-John’s bouncy like a bunny and he’s soft and pretty like a bunny.”

Mycroft smiled at the adorable rationalization. Leave it to Sherlock to be able to produce multiple explanations even while half-asleep and in head space.

“Why don’t we ask John tomorrow what he thinks of that, okay?”

“Okay, Myc,” Sherlock said. He turned to glance at John beside him, and was surprised to find the man blinking up at him, awake.

"Bunny's okay," John said, voice obstructed by the pacifier.

“Little bunny’s got a paci,” Sherlock said, clearly confused, and Mycroft could see John tense up in anticipation of negative namecalling from Sherlock. 

Mycroft nodded. “Remember, no teasing.”

Sherlock sighed. “I know," he whined. "Bunny’s not a baby.”

“That’s right, smart boy.”

John reached over and threw an arm over Sherlock's shoulders, clearly grateful for Sherlock's acceptance. Sherlock turned and buried his face into his dinosaur, yanking the comforter up over his head and squirming away from John.

Mycroft stood up and made sure both of his boys were tucked in.

“Going to sleep, now,” he said.

Mycroft leaned down to kiss John on the forehead, then walked to the other side of the bed and tried to kiss his brother’s forehead, but Sherlock squirmed away from the kiss, raising his arms up to cover his face. It was clear Sherlock's patience level and ability to accept comfort had been exhausted for the night, but that was okay. The man had done well with the conversation, and Mycroft was pleased. He settled on patting Sherlock's arm goodnight.

“Sleep well, kids,” Mycroft said on his way out of the room. 

He flipped on the nightlight and left the boys to sleep, pleased with the progress they had made despite the trials of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all been so kind with your comments and kudos--I really appreciate them!
> 
> This is the last chapter for A Trip to the Zoo, but I have more stories of the boys written that I'll add to the series soon. Let me know if you have any requests for little Sherlock or little John shenanigans that I can write once those chapters are uploaded. Thanks, loves, for reading!


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